Big Brother Is Here
by Abby Ebon
Summary: AU. Hell didn't let Dean go. After Earth was abandoned by a tech-prosperous humanity; demons laid claim to it. Sam didn't have the heart to fight. Sam fled, a passenger of Yokohama; to Pern, third planet of the sun Rukbat in the Sagittarian Sector.


**Big Brother Is Here**

_Abby Ebon_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_Disclaimer_: I do not own "_Supernatural_", the TV series. While I own all the books in the series, "_The Dragonriders of Pern__",_ © by Anne McCaffrey, I do not edit, publish, or distribute any books in said series in any way, shape, or form. I is tiny ant that worships Anne McCaffrey, please no squish! This is set in "_Dragonsdawn_".

_Dedication_: …_Chaos Silk_, her birthday; which is not today. Probably. _Oopsie_?

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

At the time of his first death; Sam Winchester did not, strictly, believe in reincarnation. That was not to say that Sam was close minded. For he knew, for _fact_, that certain 'anomalies', and 'monsters' that most took for legend, were as real as his own flesh and blood.

Most others would have scoffed at such talk, in the days when some ought to have known better - even as the first child was born off world. It was happening too quickly to be entirely natural, yet it was – _regardless _- happening.

Technology had taken a wicked turn. Humanity was outgrowing its origins, and Earth, abandoned, would be left to suffer its monsters.

To that end, Sam was always glad that Dean had not lived to see this. To see the end of days; the apocalypse, by any other name, was still the last days of humanity on Earth. It wasn't something Sam had realized was happening; not until it was too late to do more then flee.

Humanity had lost its home world, in its race to the stars. It would have torn Dean apart, and he would have stayed on Earth, which would have been his – _their_ – tomb. Or, perhaps, Sam thought sometimes on better days – Dean would have made the difference. Humanity would have had a home world to return to, once their urge to fling themselves off into the darkness had simmered.

It wasn't something that would be _realized_ as lost, not for lifetimes – and by then, well, the monsters of the supernatural would have made it their own. It would be too late to take it back.

Too much of a risk; for humans would breed with other forms of life that they would ultimately find, and being pure human, well, that was a rarity few could afford in the merciless frontiers of the universe.

To be human was to be frail. It was a lesson well taught to him in his youth; and in the infancy of humanity taking the reins of exploration, it was proven over and over. His father had not been wrong to prepare them, to raise them as warriors, rather then as children.

Yet, in one lifetime, Sam would not have realized all this; he would have long ago died on Earth, fighting with the odds stacked against him.

No, it was thanks to Azazel and the demon blood that flowed through his veins that Sam had been given the ultimate gift – the worst sort of curse for someone who, in the beginning, had just wanted to die. It was something Dean Winchester, his brother, had gifted him with (whither or not Sam wanted it); his life.

Immortality, of a sort.

Sam knew, also (for he dreamed of it, sometimes, though he knew it was not truly a dream, rather, that it was fact) that Dean was in Hell. Sam knew, though he was off-planet at the time, when whatever kept demons at bay on the physical world broke, for a reason he never quite grasped.

He saw his brother die, physical body being unmade, his soul fleeing into the darkness, between- where Sam could not reach out, could not speak. Could not even sense Dean; he dared not. Sam knew, on that day, that he was truly alone.

On that day, Sam himself fled the Earth system, taking passage as a charterer (having first claim on any land, rather then a contractors, specialists hired to round out the skills of the undertaking colonizing would take) on Yokohama; one of three spaceships bound for 'Pern', third planet of the sun Rukbat in the Sagittarian Sector.

It would take fifteen years, in deep sleep, it wouldn't matter that he hadn't aged. He was one of six thousand colonists, after all. Sam had signed on as a far-explorer, an observer and sample collector, with little more then his own two legs, a traveling tent, and a wide-range radio, he would be out of sight; out of mind.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Winchester, report." It was bitten off rudely, more of a demand then a question. Sam half wondered what would happen if he didn't answer; curiosity so far had been held at bay. Still, he knew he was the farthest out; if he got into trouble, what, after all, could the colonists do for him? It was a big planet, and satellites only mapped the observed surface, there were plenty of places to fall off the grid and disappear for a few days. If he stayed near the ocean, he suspected a dolphin could probably find him.

Landing ('official' name of the first colony Pern-side), of course, _knew_ that. His 'job' was to explore, they expected rough layout maps and for him to "bag and tag" any curiosities of flora and fauna "waste" the botanists and biologists might find useful. Sam was startlingly good at his job. He also tended to be a bit delinquent with the military-like system of report and standby Pern had in place for its "far-wanderers"; as Sam's 'job' was unofficially called.

Though he Sam had gotten used to such blunt, and to the point communications, he knew – firstly, that he had no choice in how "nice" they were, and two – they had good reason to be cross with him. While it wasn't healthy to be wandering an alien planet alone (most had a partner, or two; both of which Sam had "unofficially" declined, he worked better alone); apparently it was equally unhealthy to piss off the planet-wide communications relay director.

Which, of course, Sam had taken the chance to do on his first day planet side, by outdistancing the "approved section" within Kahrain, and 'losing' his assigned tag-along. It had been too late to call Sam back, he'd already out distanced the others by a significant margin – and unharmed, it would be a waste of fuel to go and get him for "discipline"; and it wouldn't do for Landing to lose the sort of opportunity Sam was presenting – no matter how dangerous it potentially was to his physical (and, some questioned, psychological) health.

It was just too bad, for Boone, that Sam _liked_ pissing people off.

"Only more ocean, Boone." Smugness tainted any apparent "suitableness" to Sam's answer. There was a long silence, filled with static – Sam imaged the room full of a cursing and muttering threatening looking Irish man (and whatever poor assistant was recording the relay) was filling the void on the other side of the line. Sam grinned rather ruthlessly, imagining teeth grinding.

"Did you reach the rock shelf you mentioned spotting from that flora you climbed yesterday evening?" Tone alone implied that if he hadn't, he was an idiot, and there better be a damn well good reason why the hell not; reason being injury. As climbing unknown, and potentially unstable, flora to "get a look around" wasn't considered as reckless as flinging himself in a raft down a waterfall to get to the ocean quicker by the river to the ocean; even if he had attempted it, there was nothing Boone could have done, other then voice it as "unadvisable".

Sam, had, after all proven he could go 'impossible' distances easier then most travel craft. Which were valuable, and weren't worth the risk of loosing by exploring that could be better done on two legs; it was also part precaution, so no charterers or contractors could claim "too much" without standing once on the land with their own toes.

"About noon, spotted some interesting egg shells, packed and wrapped them, air tight – they are flagged as red, erodible. Someone better come and pick them up soon, I'm in the cove south east of the shelf. Araby, near the river, it's like a paradise. Nice night to star gaze, I suspect." Sam had dropped the taunting, in this, he could be serious.

If he got lost (which was likely) or if he was injured bad enough to go back to Landing, these brief messages and descriptions might be the only thing they had to track him. They were far enough apart between morning and evening to give rise to worry. It was why Sam always said where he was going that morning, and why he camped near where he could find a physical identifiable landmark.

"Acknowledged, we'll send an unmanned sweeper in the morning. It will drop sustainable supplies for you. We'll quarry in the morning." It was a quarry he had grown overly familiar with. It was comfortable, routine. Through there wasn't another person about, there was the reminder with technology that people were here to stay. It was reassuring, sometimes - mostly, it was annoying.

"Affirmative." Sam bit out, more annoyed then he liked to admit that he had told Landing time and time again they didn't need to "waste supplies" on him; he could forge for food. Still, he had made himself a valuable resource; they didn't want him to risk sickening on poisonous plant life, or his stomach rejecting meat product. He was human, Earth born, vulnerable, even though he hated it being addressed, even in these small underhanded ways.

"Out." Boone stated, tone dry. It was a measure of his respect for Sam that he said nothing of 'taking care', or accepting 'inevitability'. Wouldn't do him any good, either, Sam was hardly one to listen. If he had, he would have been worse off then what he was, having lost Dean. Sam grimaced, settling down to sleep.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Winchester, damn-it, _respond_!" Waking up to Boone's voice, Sam had discovered early in his travels, was never pleasant. Sam usually made an effort to avoid it. Boone had the overanxious tendency to suspect the worse, paranoid as he was, overreacting and thereby sending everyone into a flurry. Making a mess of airwaves for hours after; a calamity over of something as small as a failure to check in was a bit ridicules. Yet, concerning Sam, it was suspected to be expected.

Groggily he fumbled with the 'radio, ignoring insults to his ancestors, his supposed resurrection and subsequent destruction at the hands of Boone, and being told he was, above all a lazy, arrogant, and worth more then his weight in tech. That last one would have confused anyone else.

Sam _knew_ Boone (as often, the man was his only voice to humanity, it was impossible not to know him) and knew Boone hated technology – possibly more then anyone else on Pern. It was quite the insult, as technology was being used scarcely enough - even with the colonization of Pern itself, which was dependent upon it, there was something that reminded a people who could remember Earth of having lost it, in favor of technology taking them into the 'verse.

Sam thought they might suspect, if only by instinct, that they had ultimately lost Earth.

"Here! Boone, god-damned, anyone ever tell you that you are _horrible_ to wake up to? I bet you snore." There was a snicker of laughter, hastily covered, in the silence.

"Status…?" It was hissed, and there was static silence. Even with Sam's attempt to lighten the near panic Boone had thrown himself into, he was being professional – trying to show a distance, even if his earlier remarks had disproven his word now.

Sam knew they could hear _him_, but he wouldn't be able to hear them. He winced a little, that someone who had snickered was likely getting a talking to. Probably something about not "humoring Sam's antics" or "proper discipline"; never mind that Sam had done it so that they realized he was fine, if not properly awake.

"Fine and functional, if awake a little earlier then I'd like, and really, I had told you I was probably going to stay up late star gazing." That was what he called it, when he was doing navigational charts; if the talk (Boone ranted about it a lot, Lading wasn't self-serving yet, and already people wanted to take off for parts unknown – just as they had when technology had given them the key to space travel) about ships - sea ships, not spaceships – was even remotely feasible, eventually they would need some star charts, which were, after all, better for sea travel then the fragile and sparse technology they had with them. Not that the dolphins would ever let them get lost on the open ocean. Still, star charts were valuable, even if so few of a people who were space travelers could read them while land bound. It would be almost funny, if it didn't point out another thing they had lost.

"Where are you going?" It was snapped, Boone didn't like his little lecture, and liked less that he'd been caught worrying about the "do nothing" Sam Winchester. A certain amount of exasperated fondness overcame Sam. He knew Boone was just doing his job, and he was damn good at that job. Sam only wished Boone had a sense of humor, once in a while.

"Back to the rock shelf, see what goodies you left little ol' me. Then I'll probably walk the coast to the borders of Cathay, then zigzag inward into Araby, see if this river is all paradise after all." Sam let himself be serious, he could be, if he needed to be. It was something Boone knew, but didn't count upon.

Yet, he had to realize that if there was ever anything seriously wrong – be it health or nature – Sam wouldn't joke. This was just Boone's way of dealing with stress. So far, it was working for him. Sam wasn't going to push him. He suspected Boone's health wasn't all that great, and despite contrary evidence, Sam _liked_ Boone and his dire ways.

It was refreshing to realize, it the way Boone had, that not everyone was pleased to lose Earth as they had seemed to be. Maybe, in his own way, Boone liked him for the same reasons. Boone just didn't like admitting it. Maybe. Or he was just being difficult to show he could be.

"Acknowledged. Those eggs you found, they aren't like anything we've seen before, and we're analyzing them now. I'll get back to you this evening; keep your radio on hand at all times." Boone was feeling parental and protective. It couldn't be helped. Sam let the communications click off without commenting on it. He knew when to back off.

Sam sighed a little, knowing better then to disregard Boone's wishes; he'd probably take today to do random "tests" to see how communications was working. If he was –at any time - out of contact, or unable to respond, and it wasn't dire - it would take a measure of land from his contract.

While that didn't really bother Sam, as he'd probably wander this planet for the rest of his life – just as he had Earth – not knowing what he was looking for, as he was the only one with demon blood on this planet. There were no supernatural threats here; these colonists, who had never recognized Earth's dangers, were safe on this alien world. Sam wondered how long it would take his instincts, trained over a lifetime, to realize it.

Sam hiked back to the rock outcropping that jetted over the sand and surf. Sure enough, sealed in airtight baggies, was enough food for a week. The replacement supplies, more of the sample bags and tracking locators, and a standard issue tent (the one he had was biodegradable, leaving it wouldn't harm anything as it was – while not flavorful – eatable, and would be useless in a month when exposed regularly to the environment) along with a recharger for his batteries; and clean water.

While he did have equipment to filter water, it was a waste of time to do so before morning and evening to ensure he had enough between travels – so this had been added to the arranged "drops"; the water would last three days, it was one way Landing was encouraging him to use the water purifying he'd been issued.

He already had his "cup" (which was sort of a big bowl with handles then a pot yet could still be used for either purpose) and utensils for eating, which, thank god, were not biodegradable – it would suck to be ready to eat, and then have the tools fall apart on him, starving until food could be dropped with proper utilities. Then there was his "bush whacker" a foot long blade with a serrated edge. It was supposed to be used for self defense, it served better as a defense against the wild flora; the botanists were less then pleased with him.

"Winchester, attention?" It wasn't Boone's voice that came through the radio, and Sam knew that Boone oversaw all communication tests. He would never put a assistant (which, while trained and expert technicians in their own right, Boone wouldn't trust with the wanderers, or "runners" as the jargon was catching on) in the seat.

"Who's this?" '_Where is Boone_' remained unsaid, for Sam had bit his lip on the words, but it was strongly implied in his tone – if this person was astute enough to read between words spoken on airwaves.

"Boone is standing by, I wanted to talk to you – as in person as I can get – we have new information about those eggs you had tagged and bagged for us. They are a singular life form, we have taken to calling them dragonets, two children found a hutch on the beach not far from Landing. They come in several colors, gold's are mating females, browns and bronzes are mating males, and blues and greens well, we aren't sure, but – if you find a clutch, feed them, and they'll bond with you." Sam couldn't help raising his eyebrow, though there was no one around to see. The creatures seemed more of a bother then useful, at least now he knew to avoid such clutches. Still, curiosity drove him to question, when he might otherwise have held his tongue.

"Why would I want that?" It sounded like something the colonists would be fascinated with, but while traveling – Sam didn't like to be slow, and having young 'dragonets' to take care of didn't sound useful for what Landing wanted him to do. For the first time, Sam wondered why Boone had let this person on the airwaves; they must be someone important, else Boone wouldn't have given up his seat.

"They're damned useful, Winchester, smart, they'd keep little those bugs you keep yapping about away – eat 'em for snacks, and if they work together they can drive off some of the more persistent wherries. They are companionable too, damned loyal to their bonded human, it seems. Dolphins seem to like them." That was high praise indeed for the creatures, coming from Boone.

"I'll keep an eye out, then." Sam gave way, though he wouldn't be looking too closely.

"See that you do." Something of his intentions must have been heard in his voice, or Sam had lost touch with talking with people other then Boone (either was likely, really) – for the click that signaled silence sounded a bit blunt, like the phone being slammed with frustration. Sam couldn't help his laugh, shaking his head and gathering dropped supplies as he headed further along the coast.

It was only then that he realized he'd never gotten the name he'd asked for.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Boone was oddly short with him later that night. It was his equivalent of an attempt at apology, without ever saying one. Sam didn't say much about it, partly he was still confused to why Boone had let someone talk to him, and not even explain why there was no name attached to the odd message.

Sam eventually decided it was probably at the insistence of Boone's superior, there were few enough who could pull rank on Boone and it made Sam worried. If they had intended for Sam to get his hands on some of these eggs, as was implied, Sam didn't really understand their reasoning. From what he understood of it (which, admittedly, wasn't much) there were 'dragonets' near Landing – why did they want him to bother with the eggs and their hatchlings?

There was something they weren't telling him, and Sam didn't like being kept in the dark. Yet there was little he could do about it. With such thoughts and suspicions swimming about in his head, it was no wonder that he woke in the middle of the night. Startled from his dreams by an urgency he could not ignore. It wasn't nightmares that work him.

It was hunger.

Sam felt starved, as if he had never tasted food – or known a full belly. It was a hunger so urgent that he felt nearly ill, faint and trembling he reached blindly for his supplies pack, taking from its continents a ration bar to take the edge off. It did nothing, awake now, Sam realized that for all that he felt hunger, his belly was full and his body physically satisfied.

It was not _his hunger_, he was not starving. Something else cried out in the dark, staved, weakened, and trembling with fear. It didn't matter that his mind was being invaded to press the message to him, the urgency of need – it called to Sam. Someone – something, needed his help and Sam was not one to ignore such a dire mental call. Stumbling up from his sleeping roll, he found himself lost in the dark, following only the pressing need, sensing it was near; he came to a stop, panting for breath. Stars and the two moons, Belior and Timor, gave just enough light to see that a tunnelsnake with wicked jaws, clutched at a golden bloodied creature, devouring it single-mindedly.

In the clearing of trees, he glimpsed them – little faceted eyes glittering in the moonlight, trembling in their silence –not daring to mewl least their mothers sacrifice be in vain - and so very hungry. Sam stared at the little clutch – half a dozen eyes watched him, wary and aching with need. Helpless and hungry. Sam shook his head, as if to clear it, but the urgency and presences still swirled in his mind. They were confused by their rescuer, but did not fling themselves away from the hollow in the two trees that made up their nest. There was, after all, no where for them to go.

Half amused that he had been so determined to ignore the ridiculous request to bond with the dragonets, only to have that option taken out of his hands, Sam stepped forward gingerly, using the bushwhacker he had, as afterthought, to brought along with him; Sam impaled the tunnelsnake, taking off its head.

As if sensing his intention to protect them (which was likely that they had) and at seeing their golden mother's killer murdered, they tumbled out of the tree hollow in a ridicules fashion, chirping and mewling up at Sam, still hungry – safe, but starved. They would not survive without being fed.

It was then that Sam understood and set to work on the tunnelsnake, cutting its six limbs off, feeding one to each of the six dragonets. It gave Sam the time he needed to skin and go about deboning the rest of its hide. The irony, that the young ones were feeding off the murderer of their mother – who moments ago had been feeding the tunnelsnake in turn – did not escape Sam. If the hatchlings felt anything to this, for they certainly realized it – they did not seem overtly disturbed by their new caretaker's ruthless efficiency.

Sam, when he finished, watched them, something tight in his chest released, awed. There was a little golden, who at the urging of her two of bigger bronze brothers, ate as much as she could, filling the little gut visibly.

A little brown kept intent eyes upon him, while a little blue and green fed quickly from the carcass. They finished in due time, each of their tiny bellies visibly bulging. They came over to explore Sam then, touching gently the tips of his fingers to their little noses, and teething at his finger nails curiously. Boldly, the little golden clambered up his wrist and strode boldly to his shoulder, nuzzling at the lobe of his ear, and licking his cheek gingerly.

Sam could admit that he'd fallen a bit in love with the tiny clutch. Eventually they settled, their curiosity numbed by the exhaustion of their first moments of life, their full bellies, and the safety that Sam represented to them.

Gingerly standing, Sam was ever so careful of them, though they had made themselves secure, burrowing between shirt and skin, or tucking their tiny warm bodies along his neck and shoulder, clinging to hair even in their sleep. Sam hadn't realized his hair had grown so long, falling in curling curtain down his shoulders. He had, at least, kept himself shaved, so he looked partly civilized if he ran across any of the settlements the colonists had claimed, not all of them, after all, had settled in Landing.

It was then, rather belatedly, that Sam abruptly realized that his wanderings and exploring would have to be put on hold – at least until the little horde had grown bigger then what could be carried in the palm of one hand. He remembered the two-foot length of their golden mother, and was somewhat relived at the comforting notion that the little clutch would grow. Sam didn't know how swiftly they would grow; Landing would likely have some ideas…

It was then that Sam realized he didn't really _mind_ being tied to one place for a short time. It wouldn't be forever, after all. Sam knew the little dragonets to be as curious of their world as he himself was.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Sam found out rather ruefully that it wasn't _raising_ the hatchlings in one place that he should have worried at – it was keeping them in that general area. It would have been too much trouble, not to mention nearly impossible, if he had tried raising them while still roaming about. Eventually, while watching the little golden bully her brown brother into giving over his sunning rock, that Sam realized that the clutch was devoted to the little golden, as if she were a precious queen to be dotted on.

It gave him pause, for the little golden creature rarely left his side unless he shook her off, wanting – though never saying – that he wanted her to go be entertained by her siblings. She somehow knew what he wanted of her, even though he rarely spoke – even if he did, he doubted they knew what the words he used meant.

They did, however, read intentions and impressions very well. They seemed even to know where he wanted to go, if he had a place in mind, often arriving there before he did. They had an odd way of traveling, they would fly and flick about, out of sight for a moment – then arriving or appearing in an unrelated place (it was only later that he knew this as "going between" and that such a place allowed travel to and from past and present and not merely from place to place). It hadn't taken too many times for Sam to figure out they could do something like teleport.

It was half by accident that he thought of Ruby, traveling by the demonic black smoke, only to have the little green keening at him, curiously. It was perhaps, not entirely by accident that the green scales that glittered up at him reminded him of Ruby all the more. It was strange that a green thing reminded him of a name dealing in reds and blood.

Memories festered and stirred, Sam had tensed – hands clenched shut and knuckles whitening, fearing that he would be lost to them. Sam glanced around, desperate for something to latch onto, and only then did he realize the dragonets had surrounded him, hovering around and huddling against him protectively. Sam flinched a little, for it took him a moment to realize the memories, while wakening within him, did not seem ready to consume him as they had in pervious times.

His little hatchlings were protecting him, using their mental bond. Sam slumped with relief, unable to help shaking in his relief. Sam later did not know if it was because of his exhaustion (for with the hatchlings keening to be fed every few hours, even at night) or his relief that led him into sleep. When he woke, unaware, it was to his little gold sleeping on his face.

Too tired to realize it, he thought of Lilith. It took Sam a few days to get over the fact that his memories didn't – would not – hurt him or bleed the mental scars, though Dean still made his heart ache, as it should be. Even in that short amount of time, Sam realized that anytime he thought of a particular demon – or, more rarely, the one angel, Castiel, that hadn't bothered to be his enemy, one of his dragonets would call his attention to it.

It was perhaps not by accident that these memories, loosing their viciousness, became later something of an amusing game. It was how Lilith became the name of his fierce little gold, and Castiel became the bronze twin that sought him out for affection while Lilith was elsewhere, or Alastair identified the smaller bronze that tormented and bullied his siblings, or Lucifer was branded to the brown who fiercely protected the smaller blue and greens from Alastair, it amused Sam that the wimpy blue who let himself be bullied by his green sister acknowledged Sam when he thought of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Azazel.

It didn't surprise him that the green female who had first responded to his memories of Ruby, hovered when memories of the witch-demon lingered in the back of his mind. It couldn't be helped, Sam had realized, and in a way he was grateful – it was amusing, yes, but if he had to remember, the humor in the thought of how demons and angles would react to the 'names' of his little hatchlings was something that never failed to pull him back into the here and now.

Dean would have thought it terribly reckless, though when he came over to Sam's side of thinking and stopped being "big brother" – Dean would have thought it was hilarious. That much was comforting, when all else failed.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"_Mayday! Mayday! Mayday at Landing! Take shelter! Get livestock under cover! Extreme danger. Shelter all living things. Shelter under rock, metal, in water! An unnatural rain heading westward in uneven fall. Deadly! Deadly! Shelter. Mayday from Landing. Mayday from Landing. Mayday from Landing. Could unnatural. Rainfall deadly. Mayday from Landing! Take shelter! Mayday. Mayday_."

Sam had been eight years on Pern, and would never forget the sick jolt of fear that dug into his belly, the dread that quickened his heart, and made it ache to breath. His first frantic thought was that he had failed – demons had followed him from Earth. Then, when Lilith chirped in alarm, Castiel darting off in a blink of an eye, and Alastair rounded up the rest, flying restlessly around them – Sam knew there were few things that the dragonets took so serious as this sudden alarm; even while hunting there was a leisure of playfulness.

That was when Sam realized that black smoke did not look like 'rain', and that – whatever was happening, the dragonets had some instinctual knowledge of it. Sam swallowed, realizing that the 'rain' however unnatural it was to the Earth born, was a patterned occurrence to Pern.

Hovering protectively about Sam, they made it plain that they were waiting for Castiel to reappear. There was intelligence about them, as if this blind instinct wasn't something to be doubted. So, Sam did not, for the moment he could take it to heart that they knew what they were doing.

With a flurry of wings and a bleating call, Castiel reappeared, only to dart and flicker while airborne. The little bronze was half flying, half moving between, in his haste to get his siblings – and Sam - under shelter. It was all a matter of catching up to the little bronze, he stumbled through the bushes and brambles not knowing where he was going but trusting the little dragonets to get him there safely. They wouldn't leave him behind, swirling about his head and body in quick darting circles, and chirping encouragement and once or twice nudging his back or arm in haste.

Breathless, Sam came to a halting stop, in front of him was a glittering inland sea, called, he knew, Sea of Azov – in the distance little islands dotted the surface. Lilith didn't wait for Castiel to show the way as she fluttered over the water, squalling at him in what he took to be encouragement to swim. Sam noticed one of the smaller islands nearby – and, taking it to heart, waded into the water splashing and struggling to become submerged. Over his shoulder, silvery grey seething clouds seemed to gather on the horizon menacingly.

With dragonets urging him onward, Sam swam toward the rocky island. Its shore would be hard to clamber onto, as sharp rocks darted out of the water forming a shelf that left enough space to breath and move beneath, barely. When he reached it – attempting to grab a ledge and hoist him up onto the island – sure that he would be safe, surrounded by water, Ruby bugled in alarm, teeth snapping viciously at his fingers. Jerking away, Sam was saved from losing his hand as a silver tentacle of heaving slithering that drowned, helpless, in the water.

Watching the rain of gray heaving mass, drowning in water – and consuming the foliage he had stood around and under just moments before, Sam became aware of his six dragonets; each silently quivering about his shoulders and clinging reassuringly to skin and hair. They were alive.

Sam determined to keep it that way.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

It was inevitable that Sam make his way back to Landing. It took longer then it should have, as he took detours, trying to find straggling survivors. He found no one; everywhere was ruin and foliage eaten into the ground as circler patterns. Sam tried not to think of how the silver "things" had probably killed people.

Sam had lost most of his supplies, and was not expected to arrive at Landing – alive; that he had gave a measure of hope to some that others – further out – might have lived as well. The hardest part of coming back to Landing was realizing, Boone was dead; Sam was given a first person account of how Boone had heroically given his life to another communication technician so the word of danger would reach further though the scattered colonists of the southern landmass.

There was little for Sam to do, as any off-world cry for help, even heard and heeded, would not have any swift incoming rescue. It was what the settlers had sought, the isolation from worlds and stations where technology was second nature. Now, some feared, it might be their doom.

Still, Sam did not despair, not yet – he had been in too many dire situations on Earth and off to up hope so soon. Some of the scientists, as he well knew with rumor, were considering making dragonets bigger – big enough to carry a person into flight, and intelligent enough to work as a team with a rider and other dragons to scorch thread with the fire the dragonets had shown they could produce when threatened by thread.

Sam could only hope that it did not end up creating another danger as the cheetah feline that had escaped from captivity- it was truly a ruthless piece of work, deadly to any humans it might encounter in the wilderness or in the fields at a distance from Landing. Rumor soon became blunt truth, there was no attempt at hiding what was being planned from the colonists, not when any hope at survival – any assurance, however small - was needed desperately to keep moral from slipping or panic from setting in.

It was three months short of year after the first eighteen _dragon_ eggs hatched. It was a day Sam Winchester would never forget. Sam knew that although the younger generation was encouraged to be at the clutching grounds at the time of hatching (whenever that was to be, no one had a guess) Sam hadn't truly thought that he should be among them. He looked no older then thirty, but his true age weighted his heart – it would not be fair to a young innocent dragon to be bound to him. He did not know how delicate the mental bond might be, and the stress of Sam's memories might overwhelm a hatching. It was a bitter realization, yet one Sam would not set aside in risk of losing one of the precious hatchlings.

In the end, though, he had little choice in if a dragon hatching did – or did not – Impress with him. Lilith started crying out a melody, and her siblings joined her with their shriller voices. Sam grinned to himself, knowing the six eggs sitting in the hatching grounds would be starting to hatch. Unable to help it – he had missed the hatching of the first eighteen, but he thought he ought to see this last clutch hatch. Sam made his way to the hatching grounds, settling on one of the wooden benches that looked over the grounds. Sam was joined by others that did not pay much mind to him. It was just as well he wasn't noticed. His dragonets took flight when one of the eggs rocked and creaked, a splinter of bronze hide could be glimpsed though the shell.

As if that was some unheard cue, his fire-lizards flung themselves out of the swarm of dragonets that had circled and sung, urging on the dragons through their birth. Forcefully, as if crazed, Castiel and Alastair bit at his shins and elbows in their urgency, driven to get him closer to the hatching grounds. Sam tried to wave them away, and it did no good – for it was not in his heart to truly swat away the only companions he had had for nearly a decade. If he did not resist as much as he should have, Sam told himself it was because he did not think one of the hatchlings would truly pick him as damaged and broken as his soul and mind were – certainly a hatchling would be forewarned of such danger. Excitement could not help but thrum through his blood, and when Sam looked downward, he found he could not look away.

_Sammy? It's me, its Dean' it's alright now. _ These words were not spoken a aloud, for all that they washed through his mind like diving into the crisp relief of chill after suffering all his life through the smoldering heat and anger and self blame.

Sam stared wonderingly, his heart pounding in his ears, in awe he looked into the jewel-faceted iridescence of hazel, that were the eyes of his dragon. _His_ _dragon – his brother_. Something ragged and torn, aching bone-deep that he had, perhaps when he was old enough to realize - come to terms with, so much so that he had overlooked it within himself all this long time –forgotten – whatever it was pulsed painfully, new and sharp even as the edges seemed to be sown up, smoothed over, a wound that would now, finally, heal. He was whole.

_Where are we? _Dragon breath, warm and smelling of foreign spice, breezed over his face, ruffling his hair. He had not realized he had fallen to his knees when his legs had failed to support him through this shock. Sam blinked back the wetness in his eyes, the rumbling crooning of that mental voice echoed, bewildered, through his mind. In a movement that was more instinct then purpose, the tip of a rough dragon tongue lapped at his cheeks, wet as they were with tears.

_Why are you crying Sam? _Trust thrummed though their bond, a loyalty that didn't falter, even as Sam was too stunned to answer it readily. Sam let out his breath shakily, fingers reaching up to rub the delicate eye ridges, careful, then growing sure as a rumbling purr filled his ears. Almost playfully, the large bronze head tilted, nuzzling against his hand, a warm reassuring weight of physical presence that was echoed within his mind.

Dean Winchester was alive.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_Notes;_

**_Dragons and their Riders_**

_First Clutch (#18) / Kitti Ping_

Dave Catarel, bronze Polenth (first dragon hatched, first rider chosen)

Sean Connell, bronze Carenath

Peter Semling, bronze Gilgath

Shih Lao, bronze Firth

Otto Hegelman, brown Shoth

Paul Logorides, brown (_unknown dragon name) _

Marco Galliani, brown Duluth (_first died, startled into between_)

Jerry Mercer, brown Manooth

Sorka Hanrahan, gold Faranth

Tarrie Chernoff, gold Porth

Nyassa Clissmann, gold Milath

Nora Sejby, gold Tenneth

Catherine Radelin-Doyle, gold Singlath

Alianne Zulueta, gold Chereth

Kathy Duff, gold Amalath

_Beyond This Point_

Not Sure; was deduced it from short-story "_The Second Weyr_". Possible First/Second clutch Impressions.

Julie (?), gold Rementh

Jean (?), gold Greteth

Arna (?), gold (?)Chamuth

(Arna's gold not mentioned by name/Chamuth rider not mentioned by name- possible Impression between these two)

_After 4 Watchwher Hatched_

Wind Blossom returned to Kit Ping's Dragon Program

_Second Clutch (#6)_

Uloa, gold Elliath

Jess Kaiden, bronze Hallath

(two unknown _gold_ _queens_/two unknown _brown and/or bronze)_

Note; it is in the _Second Clutch_ that _Sam Winchester, Impresses bronze_ _"Deannath";_ called "Dean" by Sam, but Deannath by dragons.

_Sam's Fire-lizards_

Gold – Lilith

Bronze- Castiel, Alastair

Brown – Lucifer

Blue- Azazel

Green- Ruby

_Southern Continent_

Jordan (location of Landing), Kahrain, Araby, Cathay, Macedonia, Delta, Dorado, Ierne Island, Cibola (unoccupied)

_Mood-Rings Are Like Dragon Eyes_

Dragon eyes are described as being "faceted" and "jewel like". I would assume this means they look something like dragonfly eyes. As to the "natural" color, I've always taken to be a sort of "milky" crystal/opal/iridescence with inherently "muted" - by this I mean colors you see, but do not "strike" you as pre-dominate colors – rather like how Ruth is described as a "white" dragon, yet if looked closely upon him when "really clean" the eye can catch glimmers of greens, browns, golden and blues that would otherwise not be noted.

When "whirling" I've thought it a internal swirling of the eye that is "pulse like"; a pulse can be quick and strong, or weak and skipping, that predominates the rest of the eye (the rest of the colors are still there, but the sudden lash of color startles you into noticing it, rather then the multitude of coloration in the "background".

I also thought of it in terms of the pupil, in reflection of how our eyes retract/expand based on light/dark, only theirs is affected inherently with the color their emotions would correspond to.

As to what these colors are, in the generalized species of both fire-lizard and dragon; rather then applying to the individual, as is often the case, we have this insight.

_"See, their eyes tell you…the green is dominate, which is sleeping pleasure. Red means hunger, blue and green are sort of general shades, white means danger, and yellow is fright. The speed of the eye whirling tells you how intensely they feel about something." –Menolly to Sebell, __Dragonsinger (chapter seven)._


End file.
